


A Solution Less Temporary

by HarpiaHarpyja



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Apothecary, Emotional Baggage, F/M, First Kiss, Fluff, Herbalist Rey, Light Angst, Loneliness, Mild magic, POV Rey (Star Wars), Pseudo-meta references, Rey Angst, This doesn't really go in a direction you'd expect, Writer Ben Solo, probably
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:41:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23400280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarpiaHarpyja/pseuds/HarpiaHarpyja
Summary: Rey gets a lot of regular customers at the apothecary, but there's one whose weekly visits she looks forward to most—a handsome, nameless, and often nearly wordless frustrated writer. When he comes in one rainy day desperate for something a little different, Rey finds herself inclined to take a chance on their burgeoning connection.
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Rey, Rey/Ben Solo, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 104
Kudos: 301
Collections: Reylo Moodboard Inspiration





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Erulisse17](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Erulisse17/gifts).



> For Erulisse17, based on her lovely moodboard for the TWD Moodboard Inspiration exchange. :) Hope you enjoy!

Rey opens the doors of Temporary Solutions Apothecary at seven o’clock every morning but Mondays, which she uses to restock and prepare supplies for the week, tidy the shop, and evaluate her menu of offerings. It helps to know what’s selling well and what only ever sits on the shelves, bottled or jarred or bagged, unacknowledged for weeks by anyone but herself. She has some regular clients, but mostly she gets one-offs. People who pop in for the novelty her shop presents—draughts and tinctures, herbs and teas, elixirs and powders and potions that, it’s rumored, can solve any problem or sate any curiosity for a fair price.

She likes the regulars best; they’re the ones she’ll set aside special orders for or keep on hand just enough of a particular ingredient or rare brew. They’re dependable. Dependable people, she has found, are hard to come by. In a lot of ways, those hard-to-come-by, dependable clients are the closest thing she has to friends. 

She knows that’s rather sad. She prefers not to dwell on it. 

It’s Sunday morning when, like clockwork, Mister Tortured Creative walks through the apothecary door just after nine, and Rey, like clockwork, gets that fleeting but frustrating fluttery feeling in her stomach at the sight of him. It’s fine. This is the routine. Technically, he’s a regular, though he baffles her most of the time, because unlike her other regulars, he barely rises to her attempts to chat. Rey gets that lots of people aren’t into small talk. Frankly, it isn’t her forte either—she’s just found that a lot of the time people only want someone to talk at rather than with, and that suits her fine. 

But this guy? 

He comes in every Sunday. By now he’s probably tried everything she has on offer that’s meant to get ideas flowing and creative juices juicing, including a handful of custom orders, but she doesn’t even know his name. The most sustained conversation they’ve had since he started coming in about a year ago was when he requested a particularly complex blend for clarity of mind. That time, she’d had to ask him some follow-up questions to make sure she concocted just the right thing. Unlike Maz, she can’t simply  _ feel  _ a person’s needs with a probing look, though she is learning. He’d been secretive and almost surly, but she’d managed to pry out of him that he was a writer and struggling with what sounded like a vicious creative block. 

“Good morning. Nice to see you again,” she says, glancing up from her work. “Hell of a day to be out without an umbrella, isn’t it?”

She’s been reducing some Essence of Adventure since Friday evening, and it’s at the point where it requires frequent monitoring as it nears the ideal concentration. As for her own concentration, it’s far from ideal. Completely compromised, more like. The clouds opened up just after she got in and it’s been pouring ever since, and Mister Tortured Creative is soaked through. His jacket is dark and sodden, his jeans clinging to his thighs, and his hair is stuck around his neck and ears in a way that has no right to be as attractive as it is. 

He says nothing.

Annoyed (with herself or him, she can’t say), Rey looks away, clears her throat, and gives the concoction a stir. “I’ll be right with you.”

His muttered reply sounds like assent as he paces slowly along a shelf of premade mood teas. His boots squelch and leave big wet footprints in their wake across the oak floors.

So that’s it. Their routine. 

It’s not satisfying. 

Often, it’s maddening, because aside from him presenting a regular challenge to her skills, which she rather likes, Rey finds him attractive. Part of it is the fact that he’s good-looking in a way that compounds the more she looks at him—which she tries to be careful about, because once he caught her studying him as she ground up some fresh coriander, and his eyes had been so intense. In her defense, she’d mostly been trying to get a read of him, just to see if she could. She’d been equally captivated by the downturned corners of his soft mouth and the birthmarks speckling his cheek. Today it’s the way his thick dark hair disappears beneath the upturned collar of his jacket; it’s his large hands, curled into loose fists at the end of sleeves just a touch too short. 

Yet despite how much it needles her, she appreciates his reticence. Maybe she’s reading too much into it—or is reading him exactly right—but she thinks he’s one of those people who prefers to observe and listen. He’s a writer, so he must have things to say (even if it’s probably pretentious ‘I took a creative writing course in undergrad and now I think I’m writing the next  _ Infinite Jest _ ’ eye-roll fodder), and she’s lonely, so she wonders what they are and why he is having such a difficult time committing them to the page.

The essence needs another hour or so, she thinks, so she covers it back up, washes her hands, and shuffles over to the front counter. “Sorry to keep you waiting. What brings you in today?”

For a moment he continues looking at the shelf, brow furrowed, his profile outlined against the wet, gray window behind him. Just seeing him like this makes her shiver as if she’s the one drenched to the bone. She wishes she could blame it on commiseration. When he turns, the goosebumps on her arms only get worse.

“I was hoping you could tell me,” he says. 

“Oh?”

He’s ordinarily more decisive—peruses the menu, makes his order, out in as much of a flash as possible like he’s got far more important things to do. As he draws up to the counter, she notices, not for the first time, the circles under his eyes and the pallor of his face, shaded by stubble at his jaw and upper lip. Not exactly the picture of a man who finds himself in a good place. For a while she thought he just spends a lot of time writing late into the night, but now she’s not so sure. She’s seen this before; she’s  _ been _ this before. 

“Yeah. That’s part of what you do, isn’t it?”

“Well, yes, but usually I need at least some idea of what sort of effects you’re looking for.” Rey chews her lip, scanning his face, surprised by how he lets her. She easily feels his frustration, which radiates from him, and a more subtle thread of dismay. “Is it your writing?”

“It’s always my writing.” His eyes screw shut, and he scrubs a hand over them, pulling it through his hair, squeezing it until little droplets hit the countertop. “Nothing’s working. I can’t sleep. Any time I try to sit down and just get  _ anything _ on the page it feels like my head’s full of mud. Everything I come up with is garbage.”

Rey considers.

“If you want, I’ll have a fresh stock of the Writer’s Decongestant on Tuesday morning,” she suggests. She can tell by the look on his face it’s not the answer he wants. “There’s always the Creative Juices. I could try blending a few of those into something more tailored to your needs. But I remember you said they gave you weird dreams.”

The man stares at her like he’s shocked she recalls something so personal from months ago.

“Yeah. And an urge to take up a musical instrument.”

Improbably, the corners of his mouth curve upward. He’s smiling at her. Just a bit, but she’s never seen him smile, and even with exhaustion and desperation evident on his face, it changes him for a moment. She smiles a little in return. To her surprise and pleasure, it coaxes his wider. 

“You could have just gone with it,” she says.

“Unless that urge comes with innate talent, I doubt my neighbors would appreciate it.”

“I suppose that’s true.”

He sighs and continues to drip as his smile falters, and he begins to look like he needs a towel and a long nap. Rey has a ridiculous compulsion to invite him to her apartment, which is above the apothecary and has a perfectly adequate supply of both towels and sleeping surfaces. Which will probably ensure she never sees him again and possibly gets left a bad review on Yelp for being a creep. 

“Look, er . . .” She feels like she’s about to overstep. Now’s as good a time as any. “Hey, what’s your name? I ought to know by now, but—”

“Ben. I’m Ben.”

“Ben. Nice.” It’s like he was just waiting for her to ask all this time, with how readily he answers. Her heart skips. “I’m Rey.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Shit. Of course he does. She’s wearing a name tag on her apron. Still, the flutter returns.

“Right. Well, Ben,” she starts again, “can I . . . offer you some advice that might sound counterintuitive?”

His brow crinkles adorably. “Sure.”

“The things I make here, they’re not supposed to fix your problems. They’re just there to point you in the right direction. Give you a mental boost, or some liquid courage, or some peace of mind. But, you know, with overuse, they can start to inhibit your natural creativity. Mess with your sleep cycles.” She raises her eyebrows significantly. “Your dreams.”

“I’m aware of the side effects.”

“Well then why do you rely on them so much?” 

Ben frowns, more stormy than adorable. 

“Are you telling me I’m an addict?”

“What? No!” Rey’s face goes hot, and she waves her hands as if to ward off a swarm of flies. “Just that you came in here today unable to even tell me what you wanted. And I know what it’s like to . . . to feel like I’m not enough. How tempting it can be to find ways to forget that feeling.”

He just stares at her, jaw clenched.

“Sometimes,” she adds, leaning closer, “what helps most is a good night’s sleep and some fresh perspective. Giving myself a break from what’s bringing me down.”

“Weird business plan you have here,” he grouses after a moment. They’re both leaning over the counter, close enough that she feels his breath ghost her forehead.“So, what? You’re not going to sell me anything? I should stop coming in?”

“You can purchase whatever you like. As you said, you’re aware of the side effects. And I’d be quite sad if you stopped coming here on Sundays. I like seeing you.” Rey groans inwardly at the slip, but at least he doesn’t seem to have noticed—though that also makes her a little sad. “All I’m saying is that sometimes people come in here looking for things they think they need, but nothing they find on these shelves is going to provide it.”

Ben’s nostrils flare and he still looks annoyed, his hands splayed on the countertop and his head dipped in something like defeat. “Fine. Then do you have something that at least helps with . . .” 

His mouth hangs and no words come out, then he presses his lips together and swallows. It occurs to Rey he has no idea what else to ask for. His eyes are frantically scanning the menu board behind her head, then the labelled jars just below. 

“I’m not going to be insulted if you don’t buy anything this week,” she says. “Or ever again. I just thought maybe you needed to hear that you’re not alo—” 

“Loneliness,” he blurts. He seems to regret it the moment the word leaves his mouth, but he doubles down, almost defiant. “Do you have anything for loneliness?”

“Yeah. They’re some of my best-sellers.” Unfortunately. “One of the teas, actually—it’s gotten a lot of good feedback from customers. I’d recommend a half-ounce. Should brew up about eight servings.”

“Sure.”

Rey nods and slips out from behind to counter to fetch the glass jar of tea leaves, along with some peppermint to brighten the mellow flavor, then scurries back to measure it out into a little tin. He waits in silence, watching her. She senses he is embarrassed, as if he’s just admitted some humiliating truth and is waiting for her to mete out judgment. Except it’s the most relatable thing he’s ever said to her, and it doesn’t feel like enough to just send him on his way with another brew that’s only going to fade and leave him right where he started. Not when she feels it too.

“Hey, I was thinking,” she says, struggling to sound casual as she presses a discreet handwritten label to the tin and rifles through her files for the corresponding preparation instructions. “I close up for an hour every day around noon. I grab a bite down at the corner deli and then go for a walk in the park. It’s a shit day for a walk, but would you like to join me for the food part? They make amazing sandwiches. It’d be nice to have company for once.”

Everyone likes food. Harmless enough. 

So she thinks.

“I can’t,” he says quickly. “Sorry.”

Rey hates the way her stomach drops, like she’s just been thrown off the edge of a roof, but it was a long shot, and she tries not to feel too silly. She thought, when he gave her his name so readily and smiled at her like that and seemed like he might be opening just a bit, that she’d discovered the beginnings of a connection. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe she really did piss him off. Maybe it isn’t her at all—maybe he just doesn’t like sandwiches. 

Too many maybes, and a flat out refusal. At least she managed not to invite him upstairs. 

“Don’t apologize, it’s okay.” She waves a hand, steeling herself to meet his eye again as she packs his order in a small paper bag and slides it to him. “It was just an invitation. Having the time alone isn’t terrible. A welcome change after a busy morning.”

It’s the loneliness that gets her, and how even the busiest work day doesn’t fix that, even though she’s used to it.

Ben clears his throat. “I get it.”

He’s walling off again. Rey grits her teeth as she rings him up. He pays and leaves in his usual hurry, ducking his head against the rain, the parcel stuffed into the front of his jacket. She watches him run across the street and disappear around a corner, then wipes up the little smear of rainwater his dripping hair has left on the counter top just in time to greet her next customers.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heeeyyy, welcome back! Apologies for the delay -- this story was very much an experiment in me doing less planning than usual, and I still managed to overplan, question my plan, and dissociate for a month before coming back to it. It also turned out....quite long, but I'm keeping it all in one chunk because why not.
> 
> Hope this is a nice fluffy conclusion to a nice fluffy fic inspired by a beautiful moodboard by Erulisse -- thank you again for the inspo! :D

It’s not as busy a day as Rey hopes—the weather is to blame, but there isn’t much to be done for it. Not long after she returns from her quiet lunch, a small group of students from the local university pop in, shaking out umbrellas and rain jackets as they chatter about impending finals. They’re polite enough, though their anxiety and eagerness to be finished with another term permeate the air. As she gathers a few potions for stress management, tonics for focus and memory, and a mild herbal sleep aid in anticipation of their needs, she can’t help listening in on their conversation. 

“Why offer tutoring sessions at all if the exam’s going to be so exhaustive? And on a weekend! It’s like putting a bandaid on a severed artery,” a skinny, sharp-featured teenage boy opines as he mimes what Rey supposes is blood gushing from a wound. 

One of his companions, a girl with plaits, rolls her eyes and takes a whiff of some mugwort. A moment later she rears back, nose crinkled. “Oh, come on, Tem, he’s just like that. Gives you way more information than you actually need to make sure you know everything.”

Tem scoffs. “I didn’t want to take the class anyway. Chemistry should be an elective.”

“All you have to do is not fail. Solo’s tough but fair—he isn’t that bad.”

“You just say so because you think he’s hot.”

“Ugh, I do not!” 

Rey covers her snort of laughter by clattering a jar lid shut. The students look at her, alarmed by the noise, then continue their conversation in more hushed tones as they browse. It’s disappointing, because she loves hearing about the goings on at the university, but that’s what she gets for being bad at eavesdropping. 

The students stay a while longer before leaving with their purchases, and Rey spends the next few hours tending to her wares as customers trickle in and out far too sparsely. The rain slows, too, and then stops altogether in the late afternoon. She falls into a routine of decanting and dehydrating and restocking. By the time eight o’clock rolls around, she feels like she’s been here for a week. Which she has, technically. She’s closing up and about to flip the sign on the front door around to CLOSED when she notices him sitting outside on the bench that faces the street.

Ben the Tortured Creative. He’s got his long legs stretched out, and he’s changed clothes since that morning, which she guesses is a good thing or next time she sees him it’ll likely be for a cold remedy. Under the streetlights, the pavement shines with rainwater as a few cars trundle past.

She could pretend she hasn’t noticed him and carry on, kill the lights, and head up to her apartment. That would suggest she’s annoyed at him, though. Right now, she’s mostly wondering why he’s sitting around outside the shop and how long he’s been there. She cracks the door open.

“Ben?”

He starts, then cranes his head around to look at her. “Oh. Hey.”

“Hey.” She waits for him to speak, but he seems preoccupied carrying out the world’s longest and most mouth-squirmy swallow, so she steps a little further out the door. “Did you need anything? I’m about to shut down for the night, but I don’t mind whipping something up last second for you. Since I’m closed tomorrow and all.”

It won’t be the first time she’s catered to stragglers, nor the last. She doesn’t mind. It’s revenue, anyway, and a way to keep up goodwill. 

Ben shakes his head.

“No, I don’t need anything.” He gets to his feet and wanders over, stopping short of her. “I wanted to apologize for being so . . . blunt earlier.”

Rey needs a moment to sort out what he means, then scoffs. “Nothing wrong with blunt. You’re allowed to turn down an invitation.” 

“I know. You just took me off guard. And then I felt like an asshole and figured I’d get out before I made it worse. Which, in retrospect, probably made it worse. So. Sorry.”

“You hung around here half the night just to apologize for not wanting to go to lunch with me?”

“I’ve only been here a half hour,” he says, glancing at his watch.

She’s confused but not unhappy with the development. Are they having an actual conversation right now?

“You know, if you felt bad about it, you could’ve waited ‘til the next time you stopped in.”

“I didn’t want to.”

Right. So he’s a little intense—she knew that. It was easy to forget for a moment, with him so remorseful and abashed for such a ridiculous reason. She bites back the urge to tell him this whole thing is unnecessary. He’s done nothing wrong. Yet she gets the sense that there will be no convincing him.

“Apology accepted, then.” Rey bounces on the balls of her feet, searching for the right thing to say, because he’s not making any move to go. “How did the tea work out?”

“I don’t know yet. Haven’t tried it.” 

“Well, you’ll have to tell me if it’s any help next time I see you. Sunday?”

“Right. Sunday.”

A silence settles. They regard each other awkwardly. She bounces some more and is about to wish him a good night (because clearly this guy is not good at ending conversations). Before she can, he steps closer with a small frown, as if he has something very important to say but hasn’t mustered the resolve until now.

“I didn’t  _ not  _ want to go to lunch with you.” His voice is so quiet and serious that she leans in. “I had a commitment, that’s all.”

“Oh.” She rocks back on her heels and tugs the sleeves of her sweater down over her hands. It’s well into spring, but the nights are still chilly. “Well, my invitation’s still open. For another day. If you want. Or . . .”

“Or?”

“If you don’t have any commitments right now.”

“It’s a Sunday night, and earlier today you sold me a tea for lonely people. I don’t have any commitments.”

Rey snickers. “Excellent.” She casts a look down the street with a thoughtful hum. “The deli’s closed, but I was going to go up and have a late dinner. Maybe watch a film. What do you think?” 

He peers up at the second-story windows. “You live here?”

“Just upstairs. The old owner did the same, but she retired a few years ago and left the place to me. It’s a nice space for one.”

Rey purses her lips. That was an awful lot of detail for a man she doesn’t actually know beyond the barest crumbs of his personal life. Who she also just invited into her home. Alone. But she’s been getting better at honing her gift—sensing people’s feelings comes like intuition. She likes to think Maz would be proud if she weren’t off in Morocco or wherever her retirement travels have taken her this week. 

Right now, all she senses from Ben is gratitude and relief, like the only thing he had to look forward to was going home to a solitary dinner of the same leftovers he’s been eating since Thursday. Nothing that remotely gives her any reason to worry about his intentions. 

“Well?” she prompts when he remains silent. Perhaps he senses her sudden unease and the reason for it.

But then he smiles a little, the way he did earlier, and her stomach flips. “Dinner sounds good.”

“Great!” Too enthusiastic, pathetically enthusiastic, but she doesn’t care. “I should warn you, I never cook on Sundays, so I was planning on takeaway. Do you prefer pizza, tacos, or noodles?”

They decide to go with the Asian fusion place a few blocks away. After Rey places their order, Ben offers to pick it up and pay. She’s hosting, he insists, and he could use the walk; she agrees because it will give her time to finish closing and to calm the excited flutter in her chest that hasn’t settled since she caught him waiting outside. It’s still there when he gets back, brown paper bag in hand, and when she locks the door and leads him through the back to the stairs that will take them up.

It isn’t until she’s opening the door to the apartment and stepping aside to let him in behind her that it occurs to her she hasn’t cleaned all week. She likes to think there’s a method to her messes, and there is, but she rarely has cause to worry others might not see it the same way. With an inward groan, she takes in the living room, which is cozy enough when it’s tidy. A coffee table made of salvaged wood is strewn with herbology texts and botanical guides and an array of the art supplies she uses to hand-decorate her product labels; she prays they distract from the empty glass and wine bottle, and the mug half filled with cold tea. A tray with an assortment of product she has been testing sits uncovered, teetering at the edge. Some framed art leans in the corner, partially obscuring a basket of clean laundry from a week ago. The shoes she kicked off last night are still in the middle of the rug, and her yoga mat and free weights suddenly seem to take up half the floor. Clutter, everywhere.

The sofa, at least, is empty but for the throw pillows.

“Bathroom’s just down the hall to the left if you need it,” she says, veering off to the kitchenette. She’s trying to be a good host. And also maybe postpone the conclusions he’ll undoubtedly draw about the state of her living room. 

“I’m . . . uh. I’m good.” 

When she looks at him, she catches the end of a fleeting smile, a flicker of amused recognition. Maybe he hasn’t quite gotten around to his spring cleaning either.

“Sorry for the mess. I decided to do some redecorating, but . . .” She sorts their food out on the counter, ignoring the rumble in her stomach. “You ever have those weeks where all you can do when you get home is collapse onto the nearest comfortable surface?”

“Going on my fifth or sixth. I imagine it’s worse if you live at work.”

“I don’t live  _ at  _ work!” she insists. “This is a very separate space, I assure you.”

“It is.” The floor creaks a little as he moves further into the room. “I like it.”

Despite herself, she flushes again, as if she brought him up here for approval. It’s just been a long time since she has had anyone to visit. She forgot the strange mix of feelings that comes with letting someone into her personal space for the first time—excitement, a little urge to show off, a little dread that they’ll find it sad or wanting or off-putting. She’s never quite shaken the need to prove herself, even in the things that are just for her. 

“You okay with eating out of the containers?” she calls out. She has fresh dishes, miracle of miracles, but she’d rather not dirty them. “It’s usually what I do. Feels kind of decadent.”

“As long as you’ve got forks. I’m a disaster with chopsticks and don’t want to get more noodles on your floor than in my mouth.”

“My floor appreciates it. What you can see of it, anyway.”

“Do you need any help?”

“If you could clear the table there while I unpack all this, that’d be great, thanks—don’t worry about messing it up, it can just go on the floor.” 

When she carries the food out, she catches him standing in front of her little faux hearth, staring at the painting hanging above it. It’s the only piece of wall art she can’t bring herself to move from its spot. She tells herself it’s not egotistical to have her own work displayed so prominently—it just means a lot to her. Still, she grimaces and sets the food down on the cleared table before dropping onto the sofa, fixing her eyes on Ben’s back instead.

She clears her throat. He jumps and turns, crossing to join her with the look of someone caught out. As he settles his large frame on the sofa (a respectable distance from her, she can’t help noticing), his eyes settle on the food.

“You were not kidding about the portion sizes.”

“I always think they’ll last me a few days, but I tend to finish it all off for breakfast the next morning,” she admits. She plucks a fat little dumpling from the platter between them. “Though, I am open to sharing if you are. Nothing like variety.”

“I was hoping you’d suggest that.”

As they poke and prod at each other’s meals, she begins to relax, surprised at how little pressure there is to say or do anything interesting. It’s the sort of comfortable, easy silence that makes the idea of small talk more appealing because it’s not expected or required.

“So were you busy today?” Ben asks after a while, thumbing some sauce from his lip. “It was pretty quiet when I stopped in.”

“Nice way to say it was dead.”

“Well. Yeah.” He chuffs. “Forgot—‘nothing wrong with blunt’.”

She smiles as she takes a sip of her iced tea.

“It wasn’t as busy as I’d have liked. I get a lot of students around this time of year, trying to find things to help them with their exams. But I think with how shitty the weather was, no one was too eager to be out. Got a lot of work for next week done, though.” Thinking back to the trio of students from that afternoon and her botched attempt to preempt what they might need, she chuckles. “The only students I got today were very annoyed about some tutoring for biology or chemistry or something. I don’t envy them.”

Ben grimaces. “It was chemistry.”

“Listening in through the windows, were you?” she mumbles through dangling ramen.

“No . . . that prior commitment of mine. I had office hours, then tutoring sessions all afternoon.”

“You teach chemistry?”

“It’s why I moved here. Got the position last year.”

“Ahh, so you’re Professor Solo!” 

He dips his head in a tiny acknowledgement.  _ Tough but fair— _ and reportedly hot. She can only speculate about the first two, but she was decided long ago on the last. 

She jabs a chopstick at him. “Wait, I thought you were a professional writer.”

For a few moments Ben looks baffled, as if she just told him she thought he was a kangaroo. Then, that small, endearing smile appears, the effect only somewhat lessened by the fact that he has a mouthful of shrimp. 

“If I were a professional writer, I’d be having a much easier time finishing this paper I’ve been working on for the last year.”

“That’s what you’ve been writing? God, here I thought you were laboring over the next great modern novel. Not . . . what exactly?”

“Post-doc research.” His mouth compresses, as if he is caught up in his wording. “I’m researching holistic approaches to manipulating certain neurotransmitters to address episodes of PTSD. The university’s funding me, but the peer review process is torturous, and that’s assuming I finish at all. Thus all the despondent urgency.”

“That’s quite a writerly turn of phrase. ‘Despondent urgency.’ Are you sure you’re not aiming to be the next Hemingway?”

“Pft. I couldn’t stomach Hemingway in high school.”

“The subject of your paper sounds fascinating.”

“It might not be groundbreaking, but it’s important to me. It’s personal.” 

“Probably part of what makes it so challenging,” she suggests. “Not that you wouldn’t care about your work anyway, but whenever I’ve worked on something that really speaks to me, it’s hard to see past the flaws.”

“I think you’re right.” He shrugs. “It’s actually part of the reason I came to your shop.”   


She lifts an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Not the writing part, though that was the reason after the first visit. Part of the reason.” He puts his fork down and leans back a bit. “Some of my students told me about what you do. I thought it sounded like a scam.”

“Ahh. This might be a good time for me to tell you that most of the skeptics who come in turn into repeat customers.”

“Count me as another statistic, I guess.” He clears his throat and folds his arms. His eyes are wandering over the opposite wall again, where the painting he’d seemed so taken with on arrival stares down at them. “I thought it sounded too good to be real. But it’s not. The stuff you make really works.”

“When people aren’t overusing it,” she reminds him.

“Yeah, well.” He has the decency to look chastised. “You do something very unique here. I can’t explain it, but I admire it. It’s like . . . magic.”

He’s talking about her work downstairs, she knows that, but he’s just  _ staring  _ at the painting, and it’s making her feel like he’s staring at her. In the most intimate, naked way. And she means to tell him about her work, and why she does it, and how she’s never really understood it either, but instead she blurts,

“I’ve been redecorating.”

“You said that.”

“I just mean—”

“Is that Kira, Daughter of Nothing?” 

Rey blinks, her brain struggling to calibrate as her gaze darts to the painting.

“Uh . . .”

“The painting, sorry. It’s . . . it looks a lot like this character from—”

“ _ Kira the Wasteland Wanderer _ .”

He huffs another of those not-quite-laughs. “Holy shit. You’re the first person I’ve ever met who hasn’t called it The Chrome Prince.”

“Where are you finding these other people to talk about it with?” She thinks she hears him mumble ‘ _ the internet?’  _ through another mouthful of noodles but forges on. “Anytime I ask someone if they’ve seen it, their eyes sort of glaze over, so I don’t even bother asking if they’re familiar with the source material. Which, now that I’ve said that, sounds so elitist.”

“It’s hard not to sound elitist when you’re a fan of obscure 1930s comic strips and their equally obscure ‘80s film adaptations.”

“Point taken.”

“I have never been able to figure out why they did the movie the way they did,” Ben goes on, his eyes bright. He’s finally looking at her instead of the painting, and his intensity is so much she almost wishes he’d look back. “I get the ‘80s were a different time, and maybe they felt like they’d met their ‘strong female sci-fi lead’ quota with Ripley, but  _ Jesus _ . It’s not even Kira’s story anymore.”

“Yes!  _ Yes! _ ” Rey is so delighted to hear someone speaking the truth that she isn’t even embarrassed that she just spat a chunk of carrot at Ben (who also doesn’t seem to notice when it bounces off his chest and disappears between the couch cushions). “They made it all about Skylar! And fine, he’s . . . gorgeous and brooding and has that whole royal antihero with a secret heart of gold—”

“Or chrome?” Ben cuts in with a stupid smirk.

“Clever.  _ But  _ Kira’s practically an afterthought. They changed her backstory so much none of her motivations make sense, and then they completely threw away all the romance and sexual tension between her and Sky. The ending is such a mess. Somehow the whole movie both reduces its heroine to a love interest  _ and  _ deprives her of being with the man she loves. They would never go their separate ways after what they went through together, right? After she assassinated the Patriarch, and Sky gave up half of his heart for her . . .”

This is where she expects Ben to laugh, maybe tease her for getting so wrapped up in the romantic storyline (even though the comic was basically a Gothic romance set in a post-apocalyptic retrofuturist wasteland), and then, when she gets mad at said teasing, play it off as a joke and remind her that love wasn’t the point of the story. 

Except it was. And he doesn’t. He’s waiting for her to finish.

“Anyway,” she says. “Yeah, I’m a fan.”

Now he does laugh, but it’s fond and gentle. “I always thought that if they had stuck closer to the comic, the movie would have been a classic. Instead it’s just kind of . . . hm.”

“A baffling disappointment?”

“That. I can’t bring myself to hate it though.”

“Neither can I. So bad it’s good, I guess. And the comic is still amazing. I read it at least once a year. There’s always something I haven’t noticed before.”

“Yeah, me too. It took me forever to find a copy of the omnibus. I don’t even want to tell you how much I paid for it. Worth it, though.” His eyes finally drift back to the painting. “Does this mean you have other Kira art? I’ve never seen one like this. It’s beautiful.”

“Oh. Thanks.” Rey distracts herself with another dumpling, and her admission is half obscured. “It’s mine, actually.”

Ben cocks his head. “Seriously? As in, you painted it?”

“Yep.”

“What the hell are you doing working at an apothecary when you can paint like that?”

She looks up at it. It is, she knows, objectively well done: a rendering of Kira near the end of her journey—at least according to the comics—in a verdant field, surrounded by huge blue and yellow blooms shining with dew, her iconic twinblades sheathed at her hips. Her expression is thoughtful but content, and her dark hair is unbound and windswept as she waits for Sky to arrive through the Stellar Portal. Rey remembers the day she began working on it and how quickly she finished, compelled by a whirl of hurt and uncertainty to find solace in something that would bring her joy and remind her that it was always possible to pull herself up from her lowest points.

“Working at the apothecary makes me happy.” She swallows. “It’s a way to help people. And me painting wasn’t doing either of those things.”

“Sorry. I shouldn’t have— That was rude,” he amends. “It’s amazing, that’s all. You’re talented.”

“People can have hobbies they’re good at, you know,” she says, trying to lighten the mood. “Don’t feel bad. I know what you meant. And I know I’m not ungifted.”

Ben considers the painting a little longer, his expression more perplexed than appraising. “This will sound weird, but it makes me feel things. Like . . . hm. Joy? Not  _ my _ joy, but—” He chuffs and shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

Rey purses her lips and considers what she is about to say next, then figures why the hell not?

“You’re feeling what I wanted to feel when I painted it,” she says. 

She had wanted to feel the way Kira did at that moment, when she knew she had the rest of her life to look forward to and no longer had to worry about the past. 

Expectation. Optimism. Joy.

“What do you mean?” 

“It’s just something I can do. Like the mixtures I sell downstairs. It’s the same thing. I sort of . . .” She gives herself a moment, because explaining it is always difficult, which is why she rarely does. “Look, you teach chemistry. So you know what infusion is.”

“Yeah, but that’s not . . .”

“I can infuse things—that’s the best way I’ve come up with to explain it. With emotions. Mine, or ones I want to feel or want someone else to feel. Sometimes with more abstract concepts.”

“Does it hurt?”

She chuckles. It was not a question she expected. So practical and grounded in reality.

“No. It can be tiring if I’m not focused, but I’ve done it so long I have pretty high endurance. I’m surprised you’re sensing so much from this one. I did it almost four years ago, and the effect tends to fade with time.” 

“So it  _ is _ like magic.” Ben looks at her askance, as if everything she has just told him is perfectly ordinary. “You are a fascinating woman.”

“I’m really not.” 

“Is it why you started working here?”

“Not directly.” She settles back on the sofa, drawing her feet up to sit cross-legged. “It started with art. I did it all the time as a kid. Painting, drawing, sketching. And I always knew I was doing something more with it, so I decided I wanted to study it. I ended up getting taken under the wing of this . . . guy. He had an eye for talent. Wanted to  _ foster  _ mine, especially when he realized what I could do. And for a while I did improve under him. He got pushy after not too long. Mean. I hated him, but I was obsessed with getting his approval, just the scraps of it even.” 

Her parents had never given a damn, had been happy to see her move out at seventeen; and Plutt had told her he’d make her famous, once she showed enough mastery. Of course, she never did, not as far as he was concerned. So it was just more cruelty, more gaslighting, more promises that soon enough her work would make her matter . . . and until then, he’d sell what she made and give her a pittance. Looking back, she can’t believe she was so easily led.

“One day I realized I hadn’t been happy about anything I’d painted in years. I just felt so fucking  _ alone _ . So I left school, left England, and came here to start fresh. I bartended a few months—used to have a bit of fun using my gift to give the drinks an extra kick by request. People left good tips for it. And then Maz—she’s the woman who owned this place before—she noticed one night and we had a nice chat. She was looking to train someone up to take over for her when she retired.”

“Was she able to make the same sorts of things you do?”

“Something like it. She always said I came to it more naturally.” Maz had said they shared an instinct. A feel for people. What Rey had that Maz did not was a knack for translating that feeling—emotions, dreams, sensations, impulses, the invisible things that made a person tick—into something that could be seen, smelled, tasted, or touched, consumed and felt anew. Together, they had transformed an ordinary, quaint apothecary into something more, a best-kept secret. “It’s been four years and I don’t regret it a bit.”

“I’m sorry you went through so much before it.”

“I found my path. Things have been good.” Rey nibbles her lip. “I know you think that what I do here is special, and maybe it is, but . . . it’s still mine. No one sets their expectations on me. No one demands anything great.”

Ben nods. “I know that feeling. It’s good to be free of it.”

Rey suspects there’s a story there—she can feel it, wriggling just beneath the surface of his consciousness, a dark little wormlike thing, a kinship—but she doesn’t pry for it. When he speaks again, it seems he would rather not dwell. 

“Do you paint anymore? For fun?”

“Mostly sketches, but I do.” She smiles slowly, grateful that he has no way of knowing that for the last few months, her sketches sometimes take the shape of his profile, or the swoop of his hair, or the lines of his hands. “A lot of it’s Kira stuff, to answer your earlier question. That painting”—she jabs a finger at the one above the hearth—“I did right after I moved here and was terrified of what came next. Which sounds silly, but I’ve loved her for so long and she’s always been a figure I find strength in.” 

“It’s not silly.” 

“You don’t have to be nice,” she teases, and pushes the tray of dumplings toward him. “You’re slacking off, by the way.”

He obeys, stifling a smile as he stuffs two dumplings into his mouth without ceremony. When he swallows, he looks serious again. “I don’t say things to be nice. You gave me good advice earlier today. And I was a dick about it, but I took it. Not so much the sleeping, but the other part—taking a break. I finished up with tutoring for the day, went home, and instead of giving myself hell trying to force another ten pages of theory and data, instead of brewing some loneliness tea and brooding over my laptop, I . . . tried writing something else.”

Her eyes narrow. “What did you write?”

“Would you believe me if I told you that about five years ago, my  _ Kira the Wasteland Wanderer  _ fanfiction was the second-most read in the fandom?”

Rey splutters, trying not to laugh, because she’s not laughing  _ at _ Ben, but once again he has utterly taken her off guard with his response to something she’s said.

“I’m sorry?”

“Admittedly, there are a grand total of ten  _ Kira _ fics online, last I checked. So the competition is not fierce.”

“Twelve,” Rey corrects him. “There’re twelve.” She’s read each and every one of them several times, even the incomplete, long-abandoned ones. “Wait, wait, wait, which one is yours?”

“Um.” He winces, and she wonders if he regrets sharing any of this after all. “Have you read ‘Out of the Wasteland: Chronicle of the Reborn’?”

“Are you serious? That one is my favorite! I—” She claps a hand over her mouth. “Are you taking the piss?”

“No.” 

“Oh, it was  _ so  _ good. The chapter where they sail down the moon river and see the dustlands regrowing was just . . . mmm, perfect.” Though it’s been a while since she revisited it, Rey remembers it fondly—the story picked up two years after the end of the comic and miraculously managed to incorporate the few bright spots of the film version in a way that felt organic and enriched the writer’s vision of a future for Kira and Skylar. It had been exciting, and vivid, and romantic, and it felt so  _ real _ . Except . . . “I was always sorry it was never finished. No offense, of course. I spent a lot of time speculating about how it might have gone.”

“I got busy with my studies. Then dissertations. I didn’t have time, and then my desire to finish it went too.”

“I get that.”

“Well, I don’t know what made me think of it today, but I did. I still had all my old notes. I figured I’d read them over, see if I could get a few paragraphs down just to write something that didn’t have all that weight attached to it.”

“So it helped?”

“It didn’t get my real work done, but I feel like I can  _ write _ again. Tomorrow I’ll see what I can make happen on the paper.”

“That’s great.” She bites her lip, fighting a coy grin. “Add any interesting new notes to the story in the meantime? Asking for a friend.”

“I . . . wrote a whole new chapter. I might even update the thing. There’s probably no one left who cares after all this time, but why not, right?”

“I’d care.”

She barely keeps herself from asking if she can read it. That would be akin to being asked if someone could get a look at a drawing she was in the middle of working on. Though, right now, she thinks she wouldn’t mind if Ben did that.

“You would, wouldn’t you?” 

His gaze lands on her, soft and a little surprised, and she can’t look away. She can’t stop from looking at his lips, from thinking how kissable they are, from leaning in.

“I, er . . . I think you should post it,” she says, and she’s still leaning, her face mere inches from his, and he hasn’t moved away. 

“Maybe I will.” 

“And then give your paper another go.”

“Sure.” He licks his lips. Tilts his head. “Now that I have proof I can still string words together.”

“Oh, you’ve been proving that all night.”

Rey kisses him as the last word leaves her mouth. And he melts right into it, into  _ her _ , so she doesn’t do what her brain—torn between panic and lust—demands she do and pull back to make sure this is a good idea. Instead, she deepens it, opens her mouth to catch his lower lip, sighs when his tongue brushes hers. His hand has settled on her thigh, but it stays there, firm and hot but not groping or grasping. When the other moves to her cheek, and she realizes she’s fisted her own hands in the front of his T-shirt, she expels a giggle and breaks away.

“Sorry,” she says, smiling and still close enough to feel the wonderful warmth of his face. “It just occurred to me I probably taste like onions.”

“I thought it was garlic.”

“That too.”

“So do I.” He considers and pecks her lips again, and again, before smiling against her mouth and running his hand down to her knee. “It’s not so bad.”

It’s absolutely not bad. 

“Would you like to stay?” she blurts.

“Oh. Um.”

“Shit!” She darts away as far as the sofa will allow, which is all of a foot before she hits the back cushions. “I mean—I was going to watch a movie. And you were invited, of course, but now I’d . . . I really would like you to stay a little longer, is all. We don’t have to kiss more.”

He smiles uncertainly, but his hand caresses her knee.

“Though I liked that part too,” she qualifies. “Just, you know, in case you weren’t sure. We could.”

“I’d like to stay. And I’d really like to kiss you again. As for the other thing . . .” Ben presses his lips together and looks over to the television. “Do you have a copy of The Chrome Prince?”

She laughs. What a question.

— 

Ben wakes up on a sofa and is stricken by a brief but intense surge of alarm, because this is not his couch, or even his condo. His surprise dispels quickly, replaced by memories of the night before. 

He and Rey started the movie, sure, though given that both of them had seen it countless times, “watching” it mostly took the form of talking, and kissing some more, and talking again, and making out. By the time they were horizontal he had a strong suspicion he wouldn’t be going anywhere soon. Rey dozed off by the movie’s climax—he tried not to take it too personally, because she’d also been snuggled against his chest so nicely by then, and he hadn’t arrived expecting a hookup with the cute apothecary he’d been smitten with for the better part of a year. 

Maybe if she’d been game for it, but . . . he never had the chance to ask. He’d fallen asleep too. Despite the location, it was the soundest sleep he’s had in weeks.

He stretches a leg and feels his back given an ominous crack. The coffee table has been straightened up: no signs of their meal, books neatly stacked, her tray of work supplies closed up and tucked away. The smells of coffee and burnt toast stir him to sit up, and he eyes the clock on the mantle. Just past eight. The anxious flutter in his chest settles.

“Morning,” Rey says from the kitchenette. She’s leaning against the island, sipping from a huge mug. He’s charmed by the way her hands curved around it and the way her cheek dimples when she smiles at him. “Sleep all right?”

“Really well.”

“As well as one can expect on an old sofa, I guess?” She chuckles and turns around to retrieve a plate, which she places on the island, then beckons him over. “I made some toast and eggs, if you’re hungry—not too exciting. I’ve got to go shopping later. The blackberry jam is local though, and it’s divine. So’s the coffee.”

“That all sounds great.”

Ben shuffles over, trying to flatten the mess of his hair as he surveys Rey’s little spread. A warmth of fondness floods his limbs at her nearness. He’s still not convinced this isn’t another one of his weird, nonsensical dreams—it all seemed too good to be real last night, too perfect, and still does—but even if it is, he’s happy to let it play out.

“Anything going on at the university today?” she asks.

“I’ve got an exam to supervise at nine-thirty, so I should probably head out soon. Not that I’m trying to run out on you again.”

He’d actually love a reason not to leave, even if work calls.

She waves a hand, and an errant splotch of jam flies from her thumb to the counter, just missing his elbow. “It’s fine. This is my day off. I was planning to take the morning slow and then run my errands. Actually finish my redecorating, maybe. Plenty to keep me busy.”

Yet as she nibbles the edge of her toast, she does seem a little sad, and he is too. 

“Can we do this again?” he asks. 

Her eyes crinkle with a smile over the edge of her mug. “I was going to ask you the same. I’m free tonight.”

When he’d first visited her shop expecting a place that was more style than substance, all pretty promises and placebos, he hadn’t expected to find himself returning again and again just for a chance to see her. When he’d asked her for something to help with loneliness, he hadn’t expected anything sustainable or even real. Last night, though, the hours he and Rey spent together felt like the beginning of something real. A year’s worth of conversations they had both been too afraid to start. Something like magic, but not quite.

He’d like to sustain that, see where it could lead. The way she’s looking at him now makes him think that she might too.

“Funny,” he says, and leans in to capture her berry-stained lips, “me too.”


End file.
